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<1st attachment, "sd1r.txt" begin>
If you like this story, please send an email to
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Skirt Day - by C. Maxwell
Chapter one: how it began
Lisa wondered why it was that despite her successful career in
middle management and a plethora of dating options consequent to
her tall, blond good looks, she still felt empty and unhappy. In
fact she didn't much like dating - all too often she would find
the guy's shallow attempts to impress, to make her laugh, and to
get into her jeans to be frustratingly unsatisfying. She usually
delivered a forceful rejection to each guy, and even went on to
instruct him on how to improve his life.
Her career was taking off - she felt a promotion coming - and with
a recent raise and no children, a paid-off house and car, and
fully paid student loans, she had all the money she needed and
more; an indication of 26 years of hard work and little play, she
thought. Why not more happiness from such early stability and
success? This she asked her recently hired therapist, Joan.
After several weeks, Joan found it a major breakthrough when she
realized that Lisa's dating disappointments - and perhaps business
disappointments as well - came from her displeasure at docile
partners. Joan explained her theory to Lisa: you find forceful
men attractive, but you are so self-confident that you are too
forceful with them to allow them to assert themselves.
Joan thought of a potential therapy for Lisa. She began asking
Lisa questions about how she could tone down her aggressive
stature. One session, Joan had an idea:
"Lisa - I notice that at every session, you are always dressed
quite similarly. Baggy jeans, a dark-colored blouse or sweater.
You never dress in a particularly . . . feminine way," Joan asked,
looking for something.
"I prefer to dress this way. It's comfortable."
"And fairly gender neutral . . ."
"So?"
"So, why don't you ever wear a dress? Maybe a low-cut top? High
heels?"
"I don't think I would be taken seriously if I wore those things.
People would think I was, you know, just a girl."
"Do you even own any dresses?"
"I have one floor-length evening gown that I bought for a
Christmas party some years back, and another that I've had since
high school."
"Floor length? I'll bet it was more conservative than the other
dresses at the party."
"Of course. Many of the wives of the employees wore short little
cocktail dresses. You could just see the men looking at their
legs and breasts the whole time. I would never wear something
like that to an office party. What if my colleagues saw up my
skirt? They should be talking to /me/, not my breasts."
"Maybe so. But Lisa - I think this might be a route to explore
ways to enrich your life. I think you box yourself in too much.
You are always so concerned about earning respect and being the
leader. It even cuts into your wardrobe. But your wardrobe is
one of the easiest things we can augment. So, doctor's orders, I
want you to try this: after today's session, I want you to go
shopping. I want you to find something feminine - a dress or a
skirt - to wear to our next session."
"That shouldn't be hard."
"Actually, it should be, so I'm going to make it a little harder
on you. I want it to be short. Well above the knee. I want you
to buy a skirt that seems just long enough to you, but absolutely
no longer, and wear it here with bare legs. The weather is plenty
warm for it."
"You're not wearing a skirt, Joan. Why should I?"
"I almost always wear a skirt on a date. Do you?"
"No."
"Well, there you go."
That afternoon, Lisa went shopping, figuring she must be paying
her therapist for something. She had not worn a skirt above the
knee since childhood - and then she never liked the threat of
being exposed and teased by the boys. But she was an adult now
and she could handle it.
She tried on about 5 skirts and ultimately ended up buying a dark
green, loose a-line skirt that fell to just above her knees. She
put it in her closet and forgot about it until her session a week
later. As she shaved her legs that morning, it occurred to her
that although she shaved her legs almost every morning, there was
never really any point until today.
The feeling of going outside with her legs no longer safely
wrapped by denim or cotton pants, or at least knee-length shorts,
was one she had not felt in a while. She could feel the slightly
cool air on her knees and thighs as she took the subway to her
session, and she knew that she looked more feminine, more exposed,
more weak than her usual self. But there was something else.
"What else?" asked Joan.
"I guess I do feel more attractive. That's the point of this,
right?"
"That's part of it. It is very nice looking, although you still
look quite conservative. What I want for you, Lisa, is to feel
/vulnerable/. I think that's what you're missing."
"Feeling vulnerable doesn't sound like a good thing."
"I think for you, it will be. Do you have a date next week?"
"No."
"An important business meeting?"
"Just one departmental meeting. Why?"
"This is what I want you to do: tomorrow, take your new skirt to a
tailor. Ask him to shorten it by 4 inches. Don't try it on for
him, just ask him to do it. Ask him to call you when it's done.
Then, the day he calls you, whatever day it is, you pick it up.
And then the next day will be important. On that day you will
wear the skirt, again with bare legs. You will wear it even
though it will feel too short for you. You will do this because I
told you. And whenever you wear that skirt, I want you to try to
be passive. I want you to do whatever anyone tells you, whether
it be a coworker, a friend, or even a stranger. So that as you
wear that skirt, you are labeling yourself as a humble servant, at
the mercy of the world. Of course, it's really our secret that
you will do what anyone asks, but that won't change the /feeling/
of it. Do you think you can do that?"
Lisa was shocked. She did not know if she could do it. But it
sounded like a challenge. She thought about it, and Joan added
"I dare you to do it, Lisa."
So it was a challenge! Lisa believed nothing was too difficult
for her, so this shouldn't be, either.
"Remember, when you wear that skirt, you will do whatever anyone
asks, starting with putting on the skirt in the morning and
wearing it all day."
The tailor gave Lisa a slightly funny look when she asked to have
her perfectly nice skirt shortened, but would only tell, not show,
how short. Lisa felt a little embarrassed, but she did not let it
bother her since it wasn't her idea.
For the beginning of the week, Lisa felt a great anticipation for
her "skirt day." She resolved that she would indeed do what
anyone told her (not that anyone would, since no one would know
that they could) and the thought somehow excited her. She
rationalized that it was the danger of it. It's highly unlikely
that a stranger on the street could stop her and ask her to strip
naked and have sex with him, but if he did, she would /have/ to.
The more Lisa thought about it, the more simultaneous dread and
excitement filled her. On Tuesday she picked up the skirt, which
looked noticeably smaller in her hands although she did not try it
on. On Tuesday night she had a little trouble sleeping, wondering
what would happen the next day.
Wednesday morning. Lisa wakes up, showers, shaves her legs,
brushes her teeth, takes her birth control pill, and returns to
the bedroom. Wrapped in plastic is her fate for the day, hanging
next to the white blouse she planned to wear with it. She picks
out her favorite set of underwear - somewhat high cut white
panties and a bra with just a little push to it. She buttons up
the blouse (all but the collar button), and then removes the skirt
from the plastic. She slides it up her legs, and when the hem
reaches her knees she realizes that the waistband is still half a
foot from her waist. She slides it higher and when finally she
fastens the button at the waist she feels that her legs are almost
entirely exposed. She wonders after all if she can go through
with this!
She looks in the mirror. The skirt only covers half of her
thighs. She feels exposed, vulnerable, and anxious. She turns
around and bends over. It's hard to tell in the mirror, but she's
confident her panties are still covered, even though the backs of
her thighs are in plain view. She tries sitting down, exposing
more thigh as the skirt rides up. "This is how it will be all
day," she says. She knows she has to go through with it now.
Then she feels it: with the vulnerability comes excitement. What
will happen to her? What adventures will befall her now that so
much of her is exposed? It seems very different, slightly scary,
and above all, /alive/. As she puts on a pair of flat sandals she
purchased yesterday, grabs her purse, and walks out the door,
locking her house and her pants behind her, she pulls down her
skirt as far as it goes, swallows her fear, and realizes why she
has been paying Joan all this time. For the first time in years,
she is looking forward to her day.
Chapter two: skirt day
The skirt is really too short for comfort. The loose cotton sways
around the middle of her thighs, reminding her that her white
panties are not far from view. As she walks down the steps to the
subway, a sharp underground breeze flies up her thighs to her warm
crotch. She quickly grasps the hem. Did her skirt fly up? Did
anyone see? Does anyone know how vulnerable I am?
As she waits for the train, she feels the eyes of the other
waiting passengers. A large black man on the bench blatantly
stares at her. (Will he order her to unbutton her blouse?) A
blue-suited businessman offers repeated glances from behind his
newspaper. (Will he demand her panties?) An Asian woman, herself
in a mid-thigh length dress, seems to be absentmindedly gazing at
Lisa's knees. (Would she make Lisa kneel and lick her feet?)
Lisa realizes that her thoughts are crazy. Her skirt says nothing
about her self-promise to obey. The pleasant weather had several
women dressed in short skirts and dresses (although very few as
short as hers). The thought brings her down to reality, leaving
her a little disappointed. Then she remembers: those other women
don't have to obey. But I must. The thought excites her; she
cannot understand why, and she realizes she is becoming aroused.
When the train rolls into the station she holds her skirt down,
wondering what might have happened if she hadn't. She boards the
train and sits in a side-facing seat across from a young male
passenger. She places her purse on her lap and begins reading the
ads above. Of course, she has seen those ads a thousand times.
She just reads them to avoid eye contact. But today she is facing
her fears, she thinks. She looks at the passenger across from
her. He is clearly looking at her thighs, hidden more by her
small purse than by her tiny skirt. He realizes that she sees
him, and looks up to meet her eyes.
She is suddenly gripped by terror. Maybe it will start here, she
thinks. This confident young male will ask her to take her purse
off her legs, and to spread them apart so that he can see her
panties. Then he will make her follow him . . . what about her
modesty, her job, her responsibilities? How can she so easily
have sex with a stranger from the train?
But he says nothing; rather he gives an embarrassed smile and
looks away.
Lisa knows that strangers are not going to tell her to do
anything. She can merely walk among them, on her way to work like
everyone else, and they will look at her exposed legs, but they
don't know what those exposed legs mean. They don't know that it
means she's . . . available.
As she rides the elevator up to her office, it occurs to her that
it will be different with her coworkers. Her boss, her employees.
They know her - they will interact with her. What will they say?
She tries to tell if they are looking at her legs as she walks to
her desk, but if they are they are trying their best to be subtle.
Lisa does not have her own office (yet) - she just has a slightly
fancier cubicle than those she manages. As she enters her
cubicle, she looks down at her legs. So much of them are naked!
She sits at her seat and feels its rough fabric against her bare
thighs. "This skirt is not appropriate for the workplace," she
thinks. She is flushed with embarrassment. What was she
thinking?
She turns on the computer and rubs her left thigh as her computer
boots. It feels good to rub her bare flesh here at work she
thinks . . . but is anyone looking? She wishes her cubicle
offered more privacy.
The computer comes to life, and her email program starts and
instantly sends a message. Lisa remembers, too late she thinks,
that she had programmed it to automatically send out a reminder on
Wednesday mornings for the departmental meeting after lunch. She
has to chair that meeting! That means standing in front of her
entire department in this tiny miniskirt. She wonders if she
should cancel, but the email goes to the entire department,
including herself. "Don't miss today's meeting," it says. She
remembers: I will obey, even orders I sent myself!
When she reflected upon her day later in the evening, she
remembered that every time she left her desk that morning felt
like an adventure. Her walk to her mailbox. Her walk to the copy
machine - her hope that no one else would enter the copy room as
she made her copies. Her walk to the desk of their new
administrative assistant, Steve. He was definitely checking out
her legs as she gave him a routine set of orders. He doesn't know
that he could be giving me the orders today, she had thought. The
idea of what he might ask if he knew he could ask it distracted
her for a full 15 minutes after the encounter.
When it came to be noon, she realized that she was heavily
aroused. She stopped in the ladies room on the way to the
cafeteria, and entered a stall. When she pulled down her panties,
she noted their dampness. The thought of masturbating, right here
in the public bathroom of her own workplace, crossed her mind.
But she knows it would make noise. Someone would know. They
would know it was her. She couldn't. She had to survive her
arousal.
At lunch, she recalled, she was somewhat grateful to have a napkin
covering her bare lap. She thought, although she wasn't sure,
that when Art from engineering dropped his fork from across the
table, and got down on his hands and knees to find it, he may have
been trying to look up her skirt. She believes that the napkin
maintained her modesty. "If Art had only asked me to remove it .
. . "
After lunch, it is time for the departmental meeting. Lisa sits
at her desk and rubs her bare knees. She has never been to work
in a skirt, and this skirt is /too short/. She will have to stand
up in front of everyone and give a progress overview. Will they
listen? Will they look at her thighs?
As she ponders, she realizes she is running late. She grabs her
notes and rushes to the conference room, her short skirt swaying
as she walks with long strides. She can hear the chatter in the
conference room, and as she opens the door there is an immediate
hush. All eyes are upon her.
"Uh," she says, "thank you all for coming." (I never thank them
for coming - it's their job!) She starts to go through her notes
and wonders - do they see how nervous I am? Do they see how much
I wish I could sit down? And then to her horror she wonders - can
they smell how aroused I am?!?
But she would never know. The meeting proceeds as it has every
week, and it ends no differently.
As the afternoon wears away to six o'clock, and most have gone
home, Lisa has calmed down. She thinks about how on edge she has
been all day, and reminds herself why she went through it. Most
days she felt so empty. But not today. It worked, she thinks.
It worked for one day, and all the time and money with Joan has
paid off.
At the same time, she realizes that the edge is fading. She has
promised herself that when she wears the skirt, (or any skirt, she
decides), she will secretly promise to obey. And maybe there will
be slight excitement. But in truth, she feels safe. No one has
given her opportunity to obey - and nobody will. There is no real
danger, she thinks. Why should this disappoint her?
As she shuts down her computer and swings her chair out from under
her desk, Steve stops by.
"Hi!" he says.
Lisa is now sitting in her chair, uncrossed legs almost fully
exposed, and Steve is standing above her, leaning on the side of
the cubicle entrance, looking down at her.
"Hi Steve," she responds, "Working late?"
"Yeah, I guess," he says. "I . . ." he hesitates.
"Yes?"
"I think you look awfully nice today, Lisa," he says.
"Thank you Steve."
He warms to her nice response. Clearly he was nervous. Lisa
wonders if this is going to get awkward. She has no intention of
dating one of her employees, but he's clearly here to flirt.
"I like that skirt."
"Thanks, Steve, but I think it's a little shorter than I thought
when I bought it . . . " Don't want him to think I did this on
purpose, she thinks.
"Nonsense. It's perfect. I think you should wear it more often."
"Excuse me?"
"It really made my Wednesday. You should wear it every
Wednesday!"
Lisa knows he is trying to be funny, or flirtatious. Her initial
reaction is to be offended, or maybe creeped out. But this is it,
she thinks. This is where my mettle is tested. That was an
order. And she has promised herself: she will obey.
"Okay, Steve, we'll see. I need to be getting home now."
She stands and pulls down the hem. Steve is watching every move.
He lets her out, watching her. It occurs to her that he was
trying his best to be confident. She likes to encourage
confidence in her workers. But more than that . . . she feels her
safety taken away. She must obey. She /will/ wear the skirt next
week. She will obey whenever she wears it. And if Steve gets
what he wants this time, will he want more?
The vulnerability and excitement that kept her aroused all day
reach a peak. She rushes to the subway and from the subway rushes
to her apartment. She throws herself on the bed, pulls up the
skirt, and shoves her hands on her panties. Here, in the privacy
of her bed, she can moan all she likes as she pleasures herself to
the best orgasm she has ever had, followed by another, more
comfortable one.
Chapter three: Just the beginning
Lisa had mixed feeling about her next session with Joan. She
almost didn't want to tell Joan about her feelings. Joan seemed
to understand too much, and Lisa's private thoughts seemed too
private even for her therapist.
"No skirt today?" was the first question Joan asked.
"Um, no, but I did what you said. On Wednesday."
"And how did that go."
Lisa hesitated. "Well, Joan, 4 inches was a lot. That skirt was
really too short for work. I don't think I should do that again."
"Maybe once is enough," said Joan, "but tell me how you felt."
"Well, embarrassed, I guess."
"And . . .?"
Lisa didn't know what to say. She could not admit the pleasure it
gave her. She had just done it because Joan dared her, right?
"Well, you wondered if I could do it, and I did. I promised to do
whatever anyone said, and I did."
"Did someone tell you to do something?"
"Well, yes. Steve, the new, young hire, asked me to wear the
skirt again next Wednesday. So I will."
Joan smiled. "You don't really have to, Lisa. If you really felt
embarrassed . . . "
I did, but it felt good, she thought. "No, I can't back out now.
That was the point. I will wear it again."
Joan clearly sensed something, and seemed to drop the subject.
"Two weeks ago we talked about how stressful you feel when an
employee disappoints you . . ."
And then the session with Joan turned back to normal. Lisa later
thought: thank you Joan. I still need your help, but you revealed
my need to feel vulnerable at the hands of others. You showed me,
but did not abuse it.
Next Wednesday. Skirt day. Lisa, hair wet from her shower, looks
at the skirt, hanging in her closet. It's so short, she thinks
again. She'll be more naked if she doesn't go with bare legs, she
thinks. She'll buy some pantyhose. Just like pants, they will
be, and she will still be obeying by wearing the skirt. Of
course, she doesn't own any. She can be a little late for work.
She stops by a drugstore, on the way to work. She buys a few
pairs of dark pantyhose. She finds a restroom, removes the
packaging, and pulls them on to her legs. Much better, she
thinks. Just like pants. Just tighter, and more transparent . .
. maybe not really like pants at all.
The subway is packed this morning, probably because she's a little
later than usual. The crowd in the train is so thick she cannot
turn around. She keeps one hand on her purse and the other on the
metal bar above her head. She knows she needs to worry about
pickpockets in crowds this thick.
Suddenly, between stops, she feels a hand on her inner leg,
between her knees. She cranks her head around to see who it is,
but this causes the hand to disappear, and all the passenger faces
look the same: innocent, normal, waiting for the train to get to
the next stop. She looks forward again, and the hand appears
again. It must be someone sitting, for the hand to be that low,
she realizes. There are really only two possibilities, then. It
was either that Hispanic guy, or the other guy I didn't get a good
look at.
I am wearing the skirt. I will obey. I will let him touch me.
This time, she does not try to look back.
The hand feels good rubbing against the nylon on her legs.
Without much friction, it wanders freely over her knees. Lisa is
nervous, but the hand feels good. She realizes she doesn't know
whose it is. Someone has no idea who she is: he just knows she
has pretty legs, and they are shown off by this skirt. Perhaps he
couldn't resist. Or maybe, somehow he knows what the skirt means?
Lisa realizes she is getting warm, especially at her crotch. The
combination of panties, pantyhose, and skirt keeps all that warmth
and moisture in. And that hand in starting to move upwards - it
is now caressing her inner thigh, at the hem of her skirt. It
does not have much higher to go. It seems to be hesitant, though.
Is it afraid of getting caught? She must obey. She will let it
go as high as it has confidence to go. She realizes, in fact,
that she wants it to go. She wants to feel it against her crotch,
she wants it to rub her here on the crowded subway car. She
/needs/ it. As the hand slips under her skirt, she hears herself
give off a quiet moan. The older man standing next to her glances
at her face; she blushes. Nothing going on here, she hopes he
will think. I'm just standing here, not feeling a hand underneath
my skirt. Not feeling it wander higher. No, it has not now
reached the junction of her thighs. I can't feel the hand
squeezing between them. No, sir, I am not spreading my legs ever
so slightly, no, it's not wandering higher still, no OH! That's
not a strangers hand on my panties, applying a massaging pressure
against my OH YES! Just a little more, I need it . . .
But the hand stops when the train reached the next stop, and the
hand is lost in bustle of passengers pushing their way off the
train. Lisa fights her urge to put her own hand there, and give
herself a little more.
When Lisa arrives at work, she realizes her panties are soaked.
She is almost uncomfortable. She heads towards the restroom, but
is stopped as she passes Steve's desk.
"Lisa - you wore it!"
Lisa blushes. She had forgotten why she had worn it. It had been
Steve's orders, she realizes.
"Oh, yes, I guess I did." She doesn't know what to say. She
fears what Steve will ask next. But she cannot leave. She must
obey.
"Listen, Lisa, I'm really amazed that you wore that again for me.
For the past few days your clothes went back to normal - so I
thought I'd never see you like this again."
"Well, Steve, every once in a while I like to dress up a little."
"Every Wednesday, right?"
Was that an order or a joke? Lisa worried for a moment. But it
must be a joke. He can't possibly know that she will obey . . .
even his jokes. /Vulnerable/, Lisa thought. Vulnerable and
alive.
"Lisa?"
Lisa realized she had stopped responding.
"Lisa? I was wondering if maybe you'd like to get some dinner
with me tonight."
There it was. The standard date request. Dinner.
"I don't know, Steve. I'm your boss, technically, and . . ."
"No one has to know. Meet me at Chez Lou's at 7pm. I'll have a
present for you."
That's how the date was made, Lisa remembers as she sits in her
apartment, asking herself whether she will really make the date or
not. She remembers that she was taken aback by his sudden
confidence. Joan claimed she would find this attractive . . . and
she did. Even though Steve was younger, and an employee . . .
anyway, it didn't matter what she thought, because it was a skirt
day, and on skirt days she would obey. It made her feel
vulnerable, and alive, and she would not give it up. She would
obey.
"I'll see you there," she had replied. And she intended to.
It was shortly before her weekly departmental meeting, later that
day, that she realized how warm and squishy she again felt between
her legs. Right before the meeting, she retreated to the ladies
room, pulled down her pantyhose and then removed her panties.
They were sopping wet. She had no desire to put them back on.
She cleaned herself up as best she could, and pulled her pantyhose
back up. They would offer enough decency, she thought.
But as she stood in front of her employees, she could feel that it
was a little breezier under her skirt than normal. The warm
cotton of her panties somehow offered more protection than the
nylon of her pantyhose. Protection from what, she wondered?
Now she has to decide whether or not to put on a clean pair of
panties for her date. Already she feels warm. She knows it is
because of the danger. She knows that Steve's confidence is
increasing, and she knows that she cannot stop obeying now. She
knows that she will do what he says, and all she can do is hope
that he will be a gentleman tonight. What if he isn't?
Needing a little more protection, she finds a pair of modest black
panties in her drawer, puts them on, and heads for the restaurant.
Steve is waiting at a table for two. There is an open bottle of
red wine. There is a small box, wrapped in shiny green paper.
This must be the present he promised. He's trying too hard, she
thinks. He doesn't need to give me a corny present. It is
probably chocolate. Not that she didn't like chocolate. It just
seemed too much like payment.
"You made it," he says, as she sits, briefly showing her
nylon-clad legs as her green skirt rides up, but hiding them under
the tablecloth immediately after.
"Steve," she says, "before this goes further . . . "
Steve pours her a glass of wine.
"Thank you. Now, before this goes further, you should know . . ."
"Lisa, I understand. I'm younger, an employee. This doesn't have
to go any further than you let it."
I have to let it go, Lisa thought. I cannot let you let me feel
safe. But what will people think?
"Let's just not let it get out of hand, okay?"
"Okay. Now, order. They always have good fish here."
By the end of the meal, the wine has left Lisa a bit tipsy. She
eyes the green box. Mmmm . . . chocolate. Steve sees her looking
at it, and hands it to her.
"For you," he says. "But don't open it now; open it when you get
home."
"Awww," she replies, "I can't open it?" She weighs it in her
hand. Too light for chocolate. What could it be?
"Open it later, when you get home. I really hope you like it."
"I'm sure I will," she says. And then she thinks . . . "when I
get home." This means she will be going home. Steve will be a
gentleman, tonight. Oh goodness, she thinks, I /am/ attracted to
him. Or am I attracted to the idea of doing everything he says?
She thanks him for the dinner, and he walks her home. Not so much
as a good night kiss is offered as he says goodnight and leaves
her, present in hand, to return to her bedroom.
What is in the box? She cannot wait to find out. She lies on the
bed with the box and tears off the green wrapper, revealing a
plain white cardboard box. She removes the lid, and unwraps the
white tissue. It is a garment, black. She pulls it out, and
holds it up.
It is a skirt. Black, pleated . . . and short. Maybe only an
inch longer than the one she is wearing, but she is not sure.
There are many pleats, and the skirt sways around as she holds it.
It looks like it is even her size.
In the box, is a note:
Lisa,
Please, please wear it tomorrow so that I know if it fits.
Return it to me if it doesn't.
- Steve
Lisa remembers her promise to herself: when I wear a skirt, I
obey. She looks down at her green skirt, and then the note. If
that little black skirt fits, then I will have to wear it
tomorrow. And then tomorrow I will have to obey as well.
Anxiously, she removes her green skirt and pulls the black one
over hips. It sits a little higher on her waist then the green
one, but it has a little strap that she pulls tight and buttons.
It fits perfectly.
And she was wrong. It is shorter, perhaps an inch shorter than
the green one. And as she poses in the mirror, she twirls, and
the skirt flies up. Those pleats aren't meant to keep it down,
she thinks. And she believes she saw her panties! She twirls
again, and there they are! She can't wear this to work! One
overenthusiastic turn and her employees - and maybe her boss -
will see her underwear! How can she?
But she knows she will. She must.
Chapter 4: Intensification
Thursday morning. The black skirt lies on the bed. The pleats
taunt her. This skirt is way too short. I will be exposed.
Everyone will see how vulnerable I am.
Already she feels warm and moist between her legs. She remembers
how uncomfortable her cotton panties felt. The pantyhose are
enough by themselves - but the skirt leaves her so exposed! If
someone does see under her skirt, she cannot let them see the
shadow of her pubic hair under the nylon. She puts on black
panties - any other color would be too visible, followed by the
dark pantyhose. She looks in the mirror again, and cannot help
but twirl. She must remember not to do that in public!
The breezes in the subway seem especially fierce this morning.
She has to hold down the skirt with both hands, and still she can
feel parts of it blowing up. She knows that the nylons are more
transparent around the upper part of her thighs, where the
material is more stretched. She knows someone else must be
noticing that, too.
As she boards the subway car, she realizes that she stands in the
same place as yesterday. A little less crowded, but still quite
packed. She remembered her experience yesterday - that warm hand,
so confidently massaging her legs, and wandering upwards. What if
the same person sits in the same place? Would the same thing not
happen?
She forces herself not to look at the seat, where the man must
have been sitting. She turns the other way, puts one hand on her
purse and the other on the metal bar above her head. Here I am,
she thinks. Both hands are occupied. I cannot protect myself. I
cannot see you. My skirt is even shorter, my legs are even more
inviting. She stands and waits, hoping the hand will return.
Maybe I'm too early, she thinks. After three stops, she can feel
her pussy begging for the hand, any hand to rub her legs.
But no hand appears.
As she enters the office, she immediately sees Steve at his desk,
watching the door. When he sees her, his face lights up with a
smile. Lisa blushes. That's a knowing smile. He knows. He
knows he has me. He knows. . . . what I am. The thought thrills
and terrifies her. The safety she thought she had from no one
knowing was gone. But still there was a little: Steve seemed to
be a gentleman. Of course, despite their date, she still knew
very little about him. Fresh out of college, his resume did not
say too much of relevance. What would he make her do? Would he
leak the secret?
Right before lunch, she was nervous. She had been since she first
arrived and sat down. She had booted up her computer. An email
awaited her:
"L-
Meet me for lunch, third table from the salad bar.
-S"
There was no "please." It was clearly an order. She noted that
her nylon-clad thighs were nearly completely exposed by the skirt.
She would obey, of course. But she did not leave her cubicle that
morning. She had some paperwork that she would normally give to
Steve, but she did not feel she wanted to interact with him, at
least not before lunch. She set it aside and decided to bring it
to him later. She worked quietly at her desk, hiding her new
skirt from the office, when another email arrived.
"Lisa:
Can we have a meeting in my office at 3 today?
I'd like to discuss your recent progress.
Regards, Jim"
Jim was her boss. He had been watching her carefully recently,
she hoped because a promotion was in the works. But did she have
to meet him today? In this little pleated black skirt that
flashed her panties whenever she moved?
She was nervous, but she would make her lunch date. She walks to
the cafeteria carefully, her hands at her side to keep the skirt
from flipping up. She can still feeling it swaying behind her,
accentuating the movement of her ass. (Was she wiggling it more
than usual in this skirt?)
Steve is waiting for her at the bare wooden table. She pulls out
a chair and sits across from him. She feels the cool wood through
the nylon on the back of her thighs.
"I'm pleased it fits so well," says Steve. "It looks great."
"It's a little short for the office," says Lisa.
Steve smiles. "I think it's perfect."
Lisa has no response. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he thinks
she's just being nice.
Steve pauses for a moment, studying Lisa's nervous face. "Now,"
says Steve, "I want you to go to the salad bar and make me a
Caesar salad with croutons, shaved parmesan, and a little bit of
cucumber. Also bring me a Coke. You may get some extra for
yourself."
Lisa feels her mouth fall open. Her first instinct is to glare at
him, put the acid in her voice and tell him to get his own salad.
But she stops herself. If she does that, then she has not met her
personal challenge. If she does that, she goes back to the old
emptiness. If she is going to feel this way, she has to answer
his question. She has to say yes, I will do what you say. You
found me out.
She gets up, and prepares the salad and drink to his order. She
realizes that she is paying for it as well - somehow this reminds
her more directly that this is not just a simple favor. She
brings the tray back to the table - as she holds it she feels the
skirt flipping around, but she cannot hold it down.
After she puts the tray before him, he says, "One more thing. I
accidentally dropped my napkin, and it floated over there." He
points to the ground, where a napkin lies about 5 feet away.
"Could you get it for me?"
She knows what he wants. He wants to see her bend over. He wants
to see her panties poking out from behind the skirt. But he did
not ask for it, so she faces him, and picks up the napkin by
crouching down. More of her thighs are revealed, but she doesn't
think he could see her panties. Still, he is smiling as she hands
him the napkin.
"Thanks," he says.
Lisa is short on words. She steals a few bites of the salad she
assembled. She is hungry, but she feels she needs to hide under
the table as best she can. Steve seems to be scheming.
When Steve finishes, he says, "I'll let you get back to work. You
probably have some paperwork for me, since you didn't see me this
morning - feel free to deliver it at any time. I don't want
anything that's happened to interfere in our work." With that
Lisa returns to her desk.
At 3 o'clock Lisa heads to her bosses office, and knocks shyly on
the door. "Come in."
Jim's office is large and elegant. His desk is a large glass
table on black marble legs. Art-deco lighting and several
abstract paintings decorate the walls, and a large window looks
over the city. Across from his desk is a cushioned arm chair, to
which Jim beckons Lisa to sit.
As she sits, she notes that her tiny black pleated miniskirt rides
up her thighs showing the full length of her nylon pantyhose.
Lisa crosses her legs to make sure her panties are not showing,
but she realizes that more of the side of her thigh is shown to
Jim. She has no desk to hide behind. She is worried about the
impression she is giving. But, she thinks, that fear is what I
need. A new fear to face. Face it I will. I will obey no matter
what.
Jim and Lisa discussed various business matters for nearly an
hour. When the loose ends seemed to be tied, Jim paused, seeking
words. Lisa fidgets with the hem of her skirt.
"You've been doing good work, Lisa," he says.
"Thanks." Where was this going?
"I want you to know that I've noticed your good work."
"Okay . . . "
"I guess what I want to say is that I have /also/ noticed a change
in your attire."
"Ah," she says, "If you ask it of me, I have no problem dressing
more conservatively. It was actually my therapist who recommended
. . . "
"Lisa, I would never ask that of you. In fact, what I really
wanted to say was that I like your change in attire. You're
showing a little more personality and that is increasing the
morale of your subordinates. It's up to you, of course, but I
think you should keep it up."
No, it isn't up to me. I would never wear such a revealing skirt
if Steve hadn't made me.
"Well, I don't know if it's really me . . . "
"Lisa, you know the opening for assistant director of marketing is
coming up."
"Yes sir."
"You know you should call me Jim. Anyway, you probably know that
you are in strong consideration for the position."
"Thank you."
"If the rest of the board thinks like me," Jim says, hesitantly,
"then your new state of dress ought not hinder your
consideration."
What did that mean? Lisa gives a confused look. Jim clearly does
not want to explain.
"Thanks Lisa. We'll talk again soon," and with that Jim waves her
out of the office.
Lisa's head is spinning. Could her short skirts prevent her from
getting the promotion, if the board disagrees with Jim? Is that
what he meant? Or did he mean that, in his opinion, the short
skirts would help her get the promotion? She would not accept
the latter - she had to make it to where she was going with hard
work and intelligence. If the former, then if she does get the
promotion, it means she gets it /despite/ the short skirts. A
woman, truly a woman, dressing as womanly as she chooses, rising
to a position of respect. That sounds good to her, but she
doesn't know if she can do it. It sounds like a personal
challenge, she thinks. "I can do this."
Her nerves thus restored, she takes the paperwork that has been
sitting on her desk to Steve.
"Steve, I need this done before you leave today."
He smiles. "Of course. I'll drop it on your desk before 5."
Lisa's confidence is restored, and she finds that she has a very
productive afternoon. So much so that she finds she can leave
early, and she greatly desires to get home to the privacy of her
bed where she can take care of the arousal that has been taunting
her all day. She turns off her computer at 4:30 and makes a quick
trip to the bathroom. When she returns, the completed paperwork
from Steve sits on her desk. On top of the pile is another box.
A plain, white cardboard box with a thin, dark green ribbon around
it. A small note says "L - Open it now. -S."
Lisa feels her legs weaken. She knows that Steve knows her
secret. She knows that the box must contain another order,
probably another skirt. It can't possibly be a shorter one, she
thinks.
Nervously, she cuts the ribbon and slowly opens the box. It is,
as suspected, a garment, black, beneath a white note. The note
reads
"Lisa,
You looked beautiful today. Almost perfect.
This will bring you closer to perfect.
Please wear it with the same black skirt you wore today.
-Steve."
She looks at the garment in the box. There's something lacy,
strappy, and something else underneath and she is not sure what it
is. She doesn't want anyone else to see it here at the office,
but she cannot tell unless she pulls it out of the box, so she
does so. She holds it up, and her heart stops. It is a black,
lacy garter belt, with nylon stockings underneath. She has never
worn such a thing - what would it feel like? She quickly returns
it to the box and closes it before anyone sees. "I will obey,"
she reminds herself, and she rushes home in order to appease her
throbbing arousal.
Chapter five: Underneath
Friday morning, as the hot water pours down her naked back, Lisa
contemplates her situation. It's not so bad, she thinks. So I
attracted a man who likes to see me in sexy skirts and stockings.
I can do that. It doesn't change who I am. Very little has
actually changed. Then she thinks of the four orgasms that she had
the previous night, and realizes that she has to continue, no
matter what. She has not felt this fulfilled in a very long time.
Probably never, she thinks.
She begins to have doubts in her abilities to continue, after she
puts on the stockings and clips them to the garter belt. The belt
and lacy stocking tops frame her black panties, as if her pussy
were a work of art on display. She imagines her co-workers seeing
what she sees in the mirror. Their eyes would be instantly drawn
to her womanhood. She imagines this, and it excites her, but it
also scares her. She quickly reaches for her skirt to hide the
sexy undergarments.
When she pulls the black skirt up, however, she realizes that she
can't do what Steve said. The lace of the stocking tops are not
fully covered by the short, pleated black skirt, and when she
twirls the skirt swishes up, revealing her white flesh above the
stocking tops. She simply can't wear this to work! It is too
indecent!
She wonders whether to back out of the whole promise, but decides
that she doesn't want to be so easily defeated. She finds the
green skirt in her closet instead. It's a little longer, and as
she pulls it on, she is happy to find that it covers the stocking
tops, although just barely. Steve was probably not aware of how
much the stocking tops would show in the black one, she says to
herself. He'll understand. She puts on a lacy white bra (her
favorite) and a cream colored blouse, which she tucks into the
skirt.
She rushes into the kitchen and microwaves some water for her
morning ritual of instant coffee. I am such an addict, she
thinks, as she pours the coffee into her thermal mug and rushes
out the door.
As she steps outside, and locks the door, she immediately feels a
cool wind on her naked upper thighs. The waving trees on the
street tell her that it's a windier day than most. Her coffee in
one hand allows her to only hold down one side of her skirt at
once. As she walks to the subway, she can feel the wind blowing
her skirt up, above the stocking tops. She can feel the eyes of
the men on the street, hoping to catch another glimpse. She is
embarrassed, and she rushes as quickly as she can into the subway.
Again she is running later than usual and again the subway car is
completely full. And again, she finds herself standing in the
same place, one hand on her purse and the other on the metal bar
above her head. She can feel her breasts pressed against the man
standing next to her; the car is packed like sardines. Just like
the other day, she thinks. The other day when . . .
And then she feels it. At first she thinks she must be imagining
it, but then she realizes it is back. The hand. It is gently
stroking the smooth nylon of her inner left knee. She closes her
eyes. Her heart speeds up. She will not look back. She will not
move. Is it the same hand, she wonders? Does it matter?
At first, the hand just strokes the soft nylon at her knees and
lower thighs. It feels delightful, but then she remembers that
she is not wearing pantyhose today. The hand is sure to wander
upwards, where it will find her bare inner thighs! Her instinct
is to shut her legs to stop it, but she does not. Vulnerability
- that is the point, she reminds herself. But she realizes as she
considers her options that her panties have become very, very wet.
Surely the hand will discover this!
The hand begins its upward journey and Lisa's heart beats even
faster. She can feel it at the hem of her skirt. She can feel it
stroking the inside of her thigh. It strokes higher, inching its
way, until it finds the warm, exposed flesh above the stocking.
The hand is now completely under her skirt, feeling that tender
expanse of flesh between her stockings and her panties. Lisa
cannot help but moan, it feels so good to be touched there, in
that sensitive area, on a crowded subway train. The hand then
cups her panties and caresses her sex through her panties. She
feels her own wetness - and knows that whoever is so boldly
touching her knows she is enjoying it.
She is nearing orgasm and she wonders whether she can go through
with it here on the subway train. Nervous that people are
watching, maybe even someone she knows, she tries to hold back.
The hand continues its caresses, and she is not sure she can stand
it any more. She feels she will have to come at any moment. She
decides she has to . . . she wants to. She presses her crotch
against the hand, hoping for a firmer touch. The hand complies;
it finds her clitoris through the cotton panties and applies
pressure. It feels so good!
But the orgasm, so close to happening, is prevented by the train
reaching the station and the subway car clearing out. Lisa is on
edge - she needs that orgasm! She looks around for a public
restroom and the only one in the station is locked. "Out of
Service," reads the sign.
Late, she rushes to her office building. The elevator is crowded,
and she wonders if any of the men standing inches away from her
know about the sexy stockings beneath her skirt. Did any of these
men see my stockings in the wind outside? Do any of them now how
aroused I am right now?
When she reaches her floor, she walks immediately towards the
restroom. She needs to satisfy her arousal; she doesn't care if
another woman hears. But as she rushes to the bathroom she is
stopped by Steve.
"Lisa!"
"Oh, hi Steve."
"Come into my cubicle." He is stern. Lisa remembers that she
disobeyed slightly by wearing the slightly longer green skirt.
Lisa enters his cubicle and stands by his desk. He is seated in
his office chair. Suddenly, she feels his hand on her thigh. It
reminds her of her experience on the subway, and she is flushed
with excitement. Again, she feels the hand caress her and move
upwards, past the top of her stockings. But this time, it is
Steve, and he is looking at her face. His hands touch the bare
skin above the stockings and Lisa realizes that if he feels her
panties, he will discover that they are sopping wet with desire.
How embarrassing, she thinks! He will know how much this turns me
on! He will know how much I need to come!
But the hand stops and leaves her skirt.
"I'm so glad you wore them," Steve says. "Why not with the skirt
I bought you, though?"
"It was too short," Lisa says, "The stockings showed."
"Ah," says Steve. "We can't have that." He smiles, and Lisa
feels relief. She did not know what she would do if he did not
approve.
"But," says Steve, "I think we both know that I asked you to do
something and you didn't, and I'll bet you agree that some sort of
punishment is in order." Lisa's jaw almost drops to the floor.
Punishment? Her instinct was to slap him. But why were her
panties so warm and moist?
"Your punishment, Lisa," he says, "is going to be a little
uncomfortable. Take this." He hands her a bottle of water.
"Drink this down before lunch. You are not to use the bathroom
without my permission."
Lisa doesn't understand. Without his permission? Is she back in
grade school? "Um, okay, well, I need to use the bathroom now.
May I?" she asked.
"No. Now get to work."
Lisa ambles back to her desk, aroused, confused, and uncertain
about the future.
Skirt day - by C. Maxwell
Chapter six: Cheryl
When she visits Joan later that afternoon, Lisa has trouble
remembering exactly what happened earlier that day, after Steve
sent her back to her desk. She does remember that Steve's order
not to use the bathroom heightened her urge to do just that, and
her willingness to obey the order provided a continuation of the
arousal that had been increasing in her all morning. After she
got back to her desk, Lisa found it extremely difficult to work.
She continued to be extremely horny for hours - all she could
think about was that hand on the subway, feeling her wetness
through her panties. That hand had felt so warm against her bare
thighs. But more than that - had anyone been watching her? She
could not even remember, even though it had only happened a few
hours before. Someone must have noticed, she thought. She had
probably moaned. She had probably been writhing. She had a
picture of herself in the subway, flushed with excitement, humping
the hand of some unshaven homeless pervert, trying to cum while
mothers hid the eyes of their children on the train. Was I that
bad? Her memories were already blurred by the pressure and the
insistent itch of her crotch.
Add to this the fact that she really, really needed to pee. Her
morning coffee and half a bottle of water were pressing her
bladder, but she was afraid to ask Steve's permission to use the
bathroom. And she needed his permission, she remembers, because
the day was, like the day before, and the day before that, a skirt
day.
She tried her best to ignore her bladder and her morning's
adventures and get some work done. As soon as she started typing
her weekly report, however, her thoughts wandered and her right
hand perpetually drifted to her lap. How easy it was to sneak
that hand under her skirt. How nice that there was nothing but
those thin cotton panties between her hand and the source of her
pleasure. She tried to type with one hand as her other hand
stroked herself beneath her short green skirt.
Suddenly, "Lisa, can I get a copy of the Roberts report from you?"
It was Cheryl. She poked her head into Lisa's open cubicle. Lisa
looked down and realized her skirt was resting far above the tops
of her stockings and her hand was . . . oh my god, did Cheryl see?
"Um, of course, hold on a moment," said Lisa, as she straightened
her skirt as if she had only been innocently scratching her knee.
She dug to the bottom of a stack of folders on her desk and found
the report. Cheryl stood at the cubicle door, silent. Lisa
handed her the report, looking into her eyes to see if there was
any response. Cheryl was silent and stoic. She took the report,
smiled, and then abruptly walked away.
I have /got/ to get my own office soon, Lisa thought. She has
some 10 employees - does that not warrant her an office? But then
she thought: why do I need my own office? So I can masturbate
while I'm supposed to be working? She sat in contemplative
stillness for probably twenty minutes. Did Cheryl see? What did
she think?
Finally she snapped out of it. Oh my god, she thought, I so need
some privacy, a splash of water, and a pee!
She stood up and pulled her skirt down as far as it would go,
which was not very far, she thought. She marched to Steve's
cubicle.
"Steve, may I /please/ use the restroom now?"
"Did you drink the bottle of water I gave you?"
"I drank half of it. If I have any more I'll burst. Please
Steve."
"Stand a little closer."
Lisa approached Steve, who remained seated in his cubicle chair.
She is quite tall and his chair was low, putting his face at the
level of her crotch. His hand reached for her thigh, which he
gently stroked.
"Why do you want to use the restroom now? I was going to play a
little game with you at lunch. All part of your punishment,
remember?"
Lisa shuddered at the feeling of Steve's hand on her thigh. It
was different from the subway hand; that hand was much firmer, and
its anonymity made it seem larger. Steve's hand was gentle,
almost a tickle - and she needed more than a tickle. She looked
at Steve's face; at his large, childish grin, and wondered what
she really felt about this man. He is assertive, but . . .
"Steve, I need to pee. Okay? You said not to go without your
permission, but I have to go, NOW." Steve's hand had now gone
under her skirt, where his fingernail was gently tickling her bare
thigh. He tickled her for a few seconds, as Lisa waited for a
reply, her distraction mounting.
"Okay, boss," said Steve, " . . . but we'll play a little game
right now instead of later." He removed his hand from her skirt
and folded his arms. "That's a nice blouse you're wearing," he
said.
Lisa looked down at her blouse. With the garter and skirt, she
had barely given any thought to her shirt that morning, choosing a
simple cream cotton blouse.
Steve turned away from Lisa and jotted something down on a piece
of paper, which he then folded twice.
"Here's the game: on this page is a number," said Steve. "It is
the number of buttons of your blouse you will have to unbutton in
order to use the bathroom now. If you want to use the bathroom,
you have to tell me a number of buttons. If it is smaller than
the number on this page, then you may /not/ use the bathroom;
rather you will have to wait until after lunch. If it is equal to
or larger than this number, then you have to unbutton the number
of buttons that /you/ say. And the buttons will stay unbuttoned
all day long."
Lisa was confused at first, but then she thought about what number
to guess. She couldn't guess too low; she HAD to get into the
bathroom NOW. She had to guess Steve's number. She looked down
at her blouse. Five buttons showed above her skirt. He wouldn't
ask for all five - that would not pass in the office. Neither
would four. Three might, MIGHT just barely pass for decent.
That's probably his number.
"Three," said Lisa.
"Well, then," said Steve, his grin wider still, "unbutton three
buttons."
Lisa did it, she guessed right! She unbuttoned the buttons; the
first was one she might have unbuttoned on her own when it got too
hot. The second showed a bit of cleavage. The third showed the
middle of her lacy white bra. The thought of her office mates
seeing her underwear unnerved her. I have to leave these open all
day?
"Now," continued Steve, "you may use the restroom, but only to
pee, since, as you said, that's the reason you needed to go. You
may do nothing else. That's an order."
Steve handed her the piece of paper and turned back to his
computer.
Lisa walked down the hall towards the restroom. As she walked,
her blouse strayed open, showing large amounts of her upper chest.
She hoped no one would see her in this state of dress. She felt
so exposed - her legs were on display, her thighs were naked under
her short skirt, her white lacy bra was visible to all - and her
pussy felt like a river with a leaky dam about to burst.
But 10 feet from the bathroom, her boss Jim turned the corner and
spotted her. "Hi, Lisa," he said as he passed, an obvious smirk
on his face. Lisa rushed into the bathroom.
Finally in the privacy of a stall, she lifted her skirt and pulled
her panties down to her stocking tops. (That was easier than
usual, she thinks.) The relief of emptying her over-full bladder
filled her with pleasure, and she almost orgasmed from it.
Almost. As she sat on the stall, feeling relieved, she noted she
was still holding a piece of paper. What's this? She unfolded
it. Scrawled in pencil was a single large number: "1."
Oh, she thought. She looked down at her chest, at her B-cup
breasts behind the lace of her bra. She could have guessed 2. Or
even 1. And then she would not have had to have her bra on
display. She must have been confused by the game. It was that
hand at the subway, she thought. It left me so confused. She
again started stroking herself, as she sat on the toilet. But I
must not do that, she thought. Steve ordered me not to.
She cleaned up as best she could - finding herself and her panties
extremely wet - and exited the stall. Then she saw something
that gave her pause.
There, in the large mirror above the sinks, she saw a 26 year old
blonde woman, whose blouse was open to her bra, whose skirt was 4
inches too short, and one of whose stockings had fallen so low
that the start of the lacy stocking top was visible beneath the
skirt's hem. Her cheeks were red, her breathing was heavy, and as
she looked she could see that the woman's right hand was sneaking
under her skirt, stroking her pussy through her wet panties. That
woman in the mirror is going to go back out to the office, looking
just that, she thought. Everyone will know that she desires sex.
They will see it in her exposed cleavage, in the glimpses of bare
thigh above her stockings. They will smell it in her pussy which
gushes all day, feeling no relief. And anything they ask, she
thought, anything, she will do. That woman in the mirror - that's
a SLUT. Look at how lustfully she is rubbing her panties. But
she won't let herself orgasm, because Steve told her not too.
Yes, a slut. She thought of saying the word out loud. It is what
Steve wants, isn't it? She said it. "Slut." Her stroking
intensified. "SLUT." She knew Steve ordered her not to
masturbate, but it felt so good. So very, very good. Her entire
body was warm and sensitive with pleasure. "Ssssslut" she gasped,
as she felt the orgasm, the biggest one ever, she thought. Her
fingers were inside her panties, her skirt pulled obscenely to her
waist, and the pleasure overwhelmed her. She felt the orgasm hit
her, and hit her hard. Her eyes closed as the waves of sexual
release began to surge through every part of her body.
But just then, the door opened. Cheryl walked in, and without
another word walked right back out. Lisa was shocked by the
intrusion; her orgasm was cut short and she tried to quickly
straighten herself up, but she knew it is too late. "She
definitely saw this time," Lisa said to the slut in the mirror, as
she felt the pleasure start to fade away.
Chapter seven: The First Relapse
This has gone too far, Lisa decided. She buttoned up her shirt,
including even the collar button, which she would usually leave
undone, to make a point. She pulled her stockings up and assured
that the tops are well hidden by her skirt. She splashed some
cold water on her face. She had disobeyed, but it is for the
better, she thought. She couldn't go into the office looking
like . . . that. She could not let her employee give her orders.
This had all gotten quite ridiculous.
Satisfied that she looked as professional as she could in her
cream blouse and miniskirt, she left the restroom and immediately
went to Steve's desk.
"Steve," she said. She saw his eyes scan her shirt, buttoned to
the top. "I need you to put the final touches on my weekly
progress report. I'm going to take a long lunch and then I have
my usual afternoon appointment. I don't think I will return today
after that. I'll see you Monday morning."
"Uhh, okay, boss," said Steve, with obvious disappointment in his
face.
Feeling back in control, Lisa walked back to her cubicle, emailed
Steve the documents he needed, packed up her handbag, and walked
out of the office, down the elevator, into the street, into the
subway, making eye contact with no one. She went straight home,
laid in her bed, and stared at the ceiling for the better part of
an hour.
She meets Joan that afternoon, after changing into some old, comfy
jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Joan's office looks a little like a
library; three of its walls are covered in bookshelves, mostly
filled with books and journals, with the occasional piece of
sculpture or framed free-standing photograph. Two armchairs face
each other in the middle of the room. Sitting in one is Joan, who
wears a dark blue skirt-suit with bare legs. She is gazing
through her bifocals at Lisa, who sits silently in the other
chair, thinking about her day while reading the titles of the
books. "Modern Psychology." "Games People Play." "The Problem
of Sex."
"Lisa?" Joan's tone is gentle.
"I don't want to talk about it," says Lisa.
"Isn't talking about it what you pay me for?" jokes Joan. "Well,
talk about something. Don't be childish."
"Childish? I am /not/ being childish. Fine. I'll tell you."
Joan waits.
"Okay. Ever since your little 'dare' I've been following the
orders of this employee of mine."
"And?"
"And today I found myself in a public bathroom, half-naked, ready
to prance around my office like a . . a . . . like someone not as
professional as I am and should be, all because of . . . "
"Why were you half naked?"
"Well, it was a skirt day. Like you said. I was wearing a skirt
and opening myself up. Big mistake."
"Why a mistake? You seemed to enjoy the feeling last week."
"But it got out of hand."
"How exactly?"
"Well, the skirt was so short - it only fell this high on my
thighs." Lisa gestured with her hand how long the skirt had been.
"Well, that's about where my skirt is sitting," says Joan,
pointing out her own hemline. "That still passes as professional
in this decade."
"Well, it's not only that; my shirt was undone."
"All the way?"
"Well, three buttons, but . . . "
"Lisa, that seems a little more revealing than usual for you, but
it's actually quite trendy these days to wear a blouse half
un-buttoned. I still don't see why this is 'out-of-hand.'"
"Well, I was in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror, and
my co-worker, Cheryl saw me."
"So you were in the privacy of a woman's bathroom, and a coworker
saw you in a skirt as short as mine and with three buttons of your
shirt undone. And this is out of hand why?"
"I looked like . . . a slut." Lisa blushed as she said the word.
"Lisa, I doubt it. You looked a little sexier than usual, for
sure, but a slut? This is the problem, Lisa. You are too hard on
yourself."
"Well, my employee, the one who was giving me orders, made me get
his permission to use the bathroom."
"And you obviously got it, since you were in the bathroom."
"Well, that's why my shirt was unbuttoned. To get permission."
Joan waited for more, but Lisa fell silent again.
"Lisa, last week you told me that not backing out of these little
orders was the point - that it made you feel better. And now? Is
there something you're not telling me?"
"No, but . . . " Lisa rolls her eyes and starts reading the
titles on another bookshelf. "Fear of Flying." "My Secret
Garden."
"Lisa," says Joan, leaning forward, "I think we need to find out
where all this. . . repression comes from. You've told me that
your father left you when you were, what, twelve?"
"Yes."
"Lisa, did he ever . . . touch you in a way that he shouldn't
have?"
"Oh my god no!" Lisa exclaims. "No! If anything he didn't touch
me enough. He mostly ignored me, except to scold me for staining
his precious furniture. No! How could you ask such a thing?!"
"I'm sorry, Lisa," says Joan, "modern psychology is a quagmire of
inappropriate presumptions. Let's focus on the present. When
was the last time you had sex?"
Lisa is silent.
"I'm guessing it's been a while. A year, maybe?"
Lisa blushes.
"More than a year?"
"Not since college," she says, reluctantly. "I've been busy, and
guys have been so . . . well, I've been busy."
"I see. Have you been masturbating regularly?"
Lisa's blush intensifies. "I don't want to . . . do we have to
talk about this?"
Joan pauses, contemplates, and then asks "Lisa, were you
masturbating in that bathroom today?"
Lisa's hands fidget.
"Well, were you?"
"Okay, yes. Yes I was. I was masturbating in a public bathroom.
Are you happy now? And I'm mad at my employee because he told me
I couldn't but it's not the sort of thing you can stop, you know?"
Joan allows a brief pause, and continues. "Lisa, I think I see
what happened today. Masturbation is a natural, innocent
activity, but you don't see it that way. This is why you thought
you were slutty. It's not because of your flirtatious games with
Steve."
Lisa shoots back: "How did you know his name is Steve? I never
mentioned him by name!"
"You said his name last week!"
"I did not! You know him, don't you? Oh my god, you told him I
was going to follow his orders! That's how he knew! That's why
he was so confident! You knew all along!"
"Hold on, Lisa, hold on. I don't know Steve. Heck, I don't even
know what company you work at, or even what exactly you do. I
only know his name because you said it last week."
"I didn't!"
"You did!"
Another silence pervades the room. Joan says calmly, "Lisa, you
are very untrusting right now. You are defensive, suspicious . .
. and it's all because you were caught masturbating."
"I'm sorry, you're probably right."
"Look, I am right. Now, let me ask you - are you going to keep
going with this skirt dare, or are you going to back out because
of this coworker who caught you at a moment of being a normal
woman?"
"Oh, Joan, you're right, I've been silly. I shouldn't give up so
easily, should I?"
"Here is what I would recommend. Are you listening?"
"I'm listening."
"Okay: a new rule, for when you are wearing a skirt. You may only
masturbate with someone's permission. You have my number - you
can call me up if you want. Or call up a trusted friend. Or ask
Steve. But if someone else tells you it's okay to masturbate,
then you won't feel so guilty about it. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"Do you think you can do it?"
"What if I really, really need relief?"
Joan smiles. "Then you'll really, really need permission."
"Okay Joan," Lisa says. "I'll try again."
That weekend, Lisa went shopping and bought a new skirt. It was a
little more conservative - dark brown, straight cut, and almost
knee length. A long slit up the back made it somewhat sexy,
though, she thought. Professional but sexy: that's what I'll be.
And no matter what, it was still a skirt, and she would still
follow the skirt day rules. She looked forward to it. She felt
worried and lonesome all of Saturday and Sunday, and found that
she missed the feeling that she was "following orders." She did
like Steve, and although it was awkward to have to be his boss and
follow his rules at the same time, it seemed more awkward to
ignore the warm feeling his knowing gaze could give her.
On Sunday night as she drifted to sleep, she made a resolution: on
Monday, I will go to Steve. I will wear my new skirt and the
stockings he gifted me. I will pull him out of the office and go
someplace private - the park adjoining the office complex - and I
will apologize. I will tell him that I will do whatever I can to
make it up to him for not obeying his orders.
She wondered what he would do. The thought made her pussy
moisten, for the first time since her episode in the bathroom, but
she was too tired to do anything but drift into a deep but anxious
sleep.
Chapter 8: Lisa's Dream
That night Lisa had a dream. In her dream she was in high school
again. She saw herself walking down her crowded high school
hallway, wearing her green skirt - this was before it was
shortened, knee length. Of course, she didn't have that skirt in
high school; indeed, when she was in high school, she wore jeans
all the time, just as all the other girls and boys did in real
life and in this dream. But Lisa was definitely wearing a knee
length green skirt. Conservative, calm, she is stopped by a boy
she had dated. Brad.
In her dream, Lisa knows that her skirt is very, very strange.
It's length . . . changes. It changes when she is aroused. The
more aroused she gets, the shorter the skirt gets. As Lisa stands
by her locker, chatting with Brad, she is aware of her girlfriends
looking at her from across the hall. They see her finger playing
with her hair as she chats with Brad, about homework, about the
dance coming up, about television. And they giggle as they see
her skirt shrink. They know why it's shrinking! Lisa hears them
giggle and looks down: half her thighs are now visible. Her legs
are naked - she is the only student not wearing jeans, showing off
her 15-year-old thighs. They are soft and fair skinned and they
seem to glow, and Brad can see them too. Lisa is blushing, and
with each blush the skirt goes higher, because she is aroused at
the thought of Brad seeing her legs. She cannot make the skirt
stop shrinking, so she keeps talking to Brad as if nothing is
wrong. Soon her butt cheeks will be poking out, and the giggling
will intensify.
Somehow, she finds herself in French class - and now she is
wearing a cheerleader's uniform. When she will wake up later, she
will find the memory of this strange, since there were no
cheerleaders at her high school, and she certainly has never
donned a cheerleader's uniform in her life. But it doesn't seem
strange in her dream. It seems like she was supposed to be
wearing it, because the big game was that day, and all the
football players need to have their spirits lifted. So she is
wearing the uniform, for the football players, who grunt at each
other and drool as they ogle her bare legs. Her white and red
sweater is tight, showing off the shape of her perky teenage
breasts. Her blonde hair is pulled back into two little pigtails
- has she ever worn her hair that way? And of course her skirt
barely covers her legs. If her green skirt shortened as much as
it did earlier, what will become of this very open garment? And
she is still aroused, and it does make the skirt get shorter, and
shorter. The desks in the room are arranged in a big circle; the
middle of the room is empty, and she can feel all the boys and
girls in the class, all wearing blue jeans and tee-shirts, looking
at her exposed legs. She needs to stop her skirt from getting
shorter, or else it will vanish entirely. She has to stop her
arousal.
She opens her legs, and hears a gasp from the boys across the
room. Her hand slips between her thighs, to her extremely wet,
bright red cheerleader panties. When she touches them, they
completely melt and drip down her leg, making a little puddle on
the floor by her feet.
At the thought of wearing such a short, shrinking skirt with no
panties at all, her arousal doubles, and the length of her skirt
shrinks correspondingly. She must stop it! She must get relief!
She starts stroking herself, rubbing her wet clit, as the boys and
girls all watch with open mouths. The humiliation is
overwhelming, but oh the pleasure!
As her climax nears, her French teacher, Monsieur Brideaux, slaps
a ruler on the desk,
"Excusez-moi Mademoiselle!" he shouts. But she cannot stop. He
opens his mouth to speak again and says: "Beeeeeeeep"
It is Lisa's alarm clock. She wants to return to her dream. What
was her teacher going to say? She wants the orgasm - she needs to
stop her skirt from disappearing! She slams on the snooze button
and falls quickly back asleep.
She is dreaming again, but she is no longer in French class.
She's at the mall, where all the kids are hanging out. And she's
wearing her green skirt again, but this time she is wearing her
new stockings and garter. And she hears her friends start to
giggle again. Brad is there, looking at video game posters in a
store window. She is trying to get his attention, "Brad? Brad?
Do you want to fuck me? Brad?" But he is paying no attention.
As her friends' giggling gets louder, she realizes she is still
aroused. She never got her orgasm in French class! The alarm
clock had prevented it. So her skirt is still shrinking! "Brad!
I need you to fuck me now!" But Brad has started playing a demo
of some game. Her skirt is still rising. It is now at the top of
her stockings. "Please, Brad! Hurry!!!"
"Hey Lisa," calls Samantha, one of the girls, "nice stockings!"
Her skirt is now two inches above her stocking tops, and she
cannot pull it back down. There is simply not enough material any
more. She tries to look nonchalant as her friends giggle, but she
knows everyone can see her naked thighs above her stockings.
Soon, her short skirt will expose her bare pussy. The skirt rises
higher. "Brad! Fuck me now!!!"
Brad turns to her, annoyed, and says "Beeeeeeep."
Oh dammit, Lisa says. She looks at her alarm clock. She is going
to be late for work.
This is not the first time she has woken up from an erotic dream
with her right hand on her crotch, so wet her pajama pants are
soaked through leaving a small puddle on the sheets. No, it
happened one month ago. And probably a month before that. This
is the time of the month when Lisa is at her horniest.
Of course, she remembers that last month she had no men in her
life, nothing sexual in her agenda, and so she lay in bed for
nearly an hour fingering herself to multiple orgasms. As she
arrived at work, late and exhausted, she rationalized her guilt
and emptiness in a language of hormones and biological necessity.
This month was different though. This month - this Monday of this
month - Lisa had an agenda for feeling better. Yes. She was
going to don a new skirt, Steve's stockings, a sexy top, and she
was going to march right up to Steve, fresh and on time, and
apologize for not following his orders on Friday. She would make
it clear that she was still . . . available. For she would be,
she drilled to herself: she will do what he asks; heck, what
/anyone/ asks, and she will not selfishly amuse herself, no. This
time, she will not masturbate without permission.
Her morning shower almost made her late again. She could not get
her mind off her dream. Brad had never fucked her - neither in
her dream nor in real life. Her college boyfriend, Eric; he was
the first, and as she recalls, the last, since she decided since
then that her own hand did better work than the only cock she ever
felt. But she had a feeling that Steve would be different; and he
is clearly interested. Lisa realizes as she has these thoughts
that she is again stroking herself under the spray of warm water.
She snaps back into focus and turns the water off. I must be
fresh for Steve, she thinks.
A little wet from the shower, legs freshly shaved, she examines
her nude body in her mirror. Her skin is fair - almost pale, but
very smooth and unblemished. She notices that her nipples are
hard from her arousal. She picks out a bra - as she did last
week, she chooses a white, lacy bra that adds a little lift and
covers her pointy nipples well. She picks out panties: white,
simple, functional. She then puts on her new garter belt and the
stockings Steve gave her, rolling them very carefully up her legs.
She looks at herself again in just her underwear; she looks sexy,
but still herself, she thinks. Yes. This is me - the new me.
Her spirits brighten when she pulls her new skirt out of the
closet. To think, before a week ago she did not own a single
skirt; only two formal dresses. But now she has a skirt that she
bought just for today, her third, and the excitement builds in her
as she considers what it means. This is a skirt. When I wear
it, I am making myself vulnerable. Sexually vulnerable. And at
least one man knows it, and today I am going to remind him.
Suddenly, an image comes to her mind of Steve with no pants and a
large, erect penis, nearly ready to plunge into her own very wet
slit. She smiles as she pulls up her skirt. She needs this.
This morning she pays more attention to her shirt than she usually
does, trying on several before choosing a thin, pale blue sweater.
It is sufficiently tight that the shape of her breasts is very
clear, and it shows off how thin her waist is. It is a little
short, and the skirt is a little low on her hips, revealing about
an inch of flesh at her waist when her arms are raised, or behind
her. Perfect, she thinks. She notes how the outfit shows off the
curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. She has never
felt this sexy - this attractive - in her entire life, and as she
drinks a quick mug of coffee, eats a cold bagel, slips on her work
shoes, and runs out the door, she thanks Joan again for allowing
her to look forward to her day.
Chapter 9: A New Skirt
The subway is a little more empty today, as she is running about
thirty minutes late. Still, part of her hopes that the hand - her
hand - will somehow find her again today. She knows the slit in
the back of her new brown skirt should make it easy for the hand
to find it's way to her bare thighs again. As she stands in her
usual place on the train, she feels a scratching at her
nylon-covered leg.
"Oh!" She involuntarily releases a small moan at the feeling,
knowing how good the hand will feel when it starts to rub her.
"Excuse me," mutters the businessman behind her. She turns to
look and sees that the scratching was the corner of his notepad
sticking out of the top of his bag on the floor of the train.
There is no hand.
And in fact, Lisa looks more carefully and sees that this
businessman's notepad snagged her stockings enough to cause a
small run. "Dammit!" she says, and then she stares at the
businessman, "Watch it, buddy!"
"I'm sorry," says the man, but then the train stops and he rushes
out.
As Lisa walks to her office, the run in her stockings keeps on
running, and by the time she reaches her cubicle she declares them
a lost cause. As her computer boots, she walks to the bathroom,
enters a stall, and takes off her skirt. She pulls the stockings
off her legs and removes the garter belt. Dammit, she thinks, I
wanted to wear these for Steve when I apologized to him. I hope
he understands.
Maybe, it occurs to her as she walks back to her cubicle,
stockings balled up in her right hand, legs bare, maybe he'll do
something to punish me again. The thought wakes up her sex drive
again; she feels that spark of arousal and decides that she cannot
wait to apologize to Steve. She changes course and walks directly
to his cubicle.
It's empty. Maybe he's late, or getting coffee.
She walks back to her own cubicle and stuffs her stockings and
garters into her handbag. She opens up her email program, and a
variety of messages arrive. Most are business related, but two
are personal. The first reads
Lisa -
I'm taking a sick day today. Sudden cold. I should be back
tomorrow.
- Steve
Damn, she thinks. There goes her plan. The second email reads
Dear Lisa,
I think we should talk about what happened on Friday, so that
things don't get weird between us. Maybe we can meet for coffee
this morning?
Best, Cheryl
Oh great. Lisa sinks into her chair and says aloud, "I hate
Mondays."
At about 11, Cheryl pokes her head into Lisa's cubicle and asks,
"Is now a good time to talk?"
Lisa, who had never bothered to reply to Cheryl's email,
hesitates, but then replies "Okay, Cheryl. Let's see if there's a
conference room free."
Situated behind the (mostly) sound proof glass of conference room
#2, Cheryl and Lisa sit in silence at first, following a short
conversation about how warm the weather is becoming. Lisa looks
at her bare thighs, slightly exposed by her new brown skirt, and
tries to remember the joyous anticipation she felt this morning at
the thought of giving herself to Steve. A meeting with Cheryl to
talk about an obviously mutual embarrassment was /not/ in her plan
today.
Finally, Cheryl speaks up: "So, on Friday, after seeing what I
saw, at first I didn't think I should say anything, because what
you do is your own business, but then I thought about the fact
that I do need to work with you, and we have to work in an
environment in which we feel comfortable, and I think maybe you
should keep up the professional environment that all the rest of
us do, so that, you know . . . "
Cheryl pauses for a moment. Lisa is speechless.
Cheryl has short red hair. She is slightly short and plump, but
only slightly. She is wearing beige slacks, tight black blouse,
and 3" heels. A little bit of makeup makes her face seem girlish;
Lisa guesses, however, that Cheryl is about 5 years her elder.
Lisa remains silent as Cheryl catches her breath and starts again.
"That came out wrong. Look, Lisa, if you think about it, what you
do in the public places of this office do affect those around you,
like me. I have to admit I was a little annoyed at how you were
so blatantly flirting with Steve, . . . and the way you so coldly
rejected him, after all that. You need to be a little nicer to
him, but most importantly you need to take this behavior out of
the office."
"Wait a second," says Lisa, "I never 'rejected' Steve. I don't
think you understand."
"Lisa, as I see it, you made Steve think you were interested in
him; I saw you chatting with him at your cubicles and at lunch. I
saw how you were dressing for him, with those short little skirts
and your breasts hanging out of your blouse. And then on Friday
you clearly revealed, to me at least, that you were only doing it
for self amusement, as evidenced by your . . . displays at your
desk and in the restroom. And everyone saw how curt you were with
Steve right before you stormed out of the building, not returning.
Jeez. Steve must have been devastated. It's no wonder he didn't
come in today."
"No, wait, Cheryl, you have it all wrong."
"Do I? Well, feel free to correct me, then."
Lisa begins: "well, I was. . . " and then she pauses. How can she
explain this? How can she tell Cheryl about her skirt days, and
what they meant to her? And if she does tell her, then Cheryl
will know her secret; she will know her vulnerability. The
thought of this again causes a stirring below Lisa's waist. She
crosses her legs, and her rising skirt reminds her of her dream.
I have to tell Cheryl the truth, she thinks, as she feels her
courage waning and her panties moistening.
"Okay, here it is," she begins. "I was wearing those skirts
because Steve told me to. See, I have this rule that whenever I
wear a skirt, I have to obey, so Steve was telling me stuff to do.
He bought me the skirt I wore on Thursday, and the stockings I
wore on Friday, and he made me wear them to work, even though I
thought they were too revealing. And on Friday, he made me
unbutton my blouse before using the bathroom. That's why I was
dressed like that. And on Friday I rushed out because I started
to find the whole situation a little too embarrassing, after you
saw me, you know, touching myself. So that's why I left."
Cheryl looks confused. "I'm sorry - why are you doing whatever
Steve says?"
"It's because it's a skirt day. It's because I'm wearing a skirt.
That's all. It's because I want to, really."
Cheryl nods her head. "I think I get it. This is about the
position that's opening up. The assistant director position. And
the empty office. I've seen the way Jim has been looking at you,
and I heard him talking about you at lunch. You're probably
flirting with Jim to get the position, and playing your little
games with Steve in order to get a good employee recommendation
from him."
"No, Cheryl. I wouldn't do that. I would not use my body to get
ahead."
"I didn't think you would either, but how else can I understand
this sudden change in your behavior?"
"It's very simple, really, Cheryl. I just wanted to feel . . .
vulnerable, so I decided that I would wear a skirt and be
vulnerable, and Steve took advantage. It's no more complicated
than that. It's not about the position. Really."
Cheryl eyed Lisa suspiciously. "If it's that simple, then you
should be doing what I tell you to do, too, right?"
"Well, sure, I guess. I mean, within reason. I'm not going to
give you all my money or anything, or take out your garbage, but
if you want me to rub your shoulders or something . . . it is NOT
about the position!"
"Lisa, stand up." Cheryl spoke with conviction, but watched
Lisa's response inquisitively. This is it, thinks Lisa. My test.
She stands up.
"Close the blinds." A little nervous, Lisa closes the vertical
blinds separating the conference room from the rest of the office.
The windows of the other wall remain open, offering a view of the
city from the 23rd floor.
"If that skirt means only what you say it does, then take off your
sweater." Lisa feels a warmth in her crotch at the command. She
looks into Cheryl's blue eyes as she pulls her sweater over her
head, revealing her lacy white bra.
"The bra too," adds Cheryl. Lisa blushes, and unhooks the bra
from behind. She puts it on top of her sweater on the conference
table.
Cheryl sits back in her chair and looks at Lisa's breasts. "Very
nice," says Cheryl, "but not as nice as mine. You skinny girls
have your drawbacks." Lisa says nothing. "Okay, you can put the
sweater back on now."
Lisa reaches for her bra. "Leave that with me," says Cheryl. "I
want to see those little nipples pointing through your sweater all
day. If they soften up, give them a little pinch to wake them
up."
Lisa pulls the tight sweater over the breasts and indeed sees her
hard nipples clearly through the thin cotton.
"I guess I'm going to believe you," says Cheryl, "but I'm not too
sure what to think. I'll get back to you." Cheryl takes Lisa's
bra and stands up. "I'll be checking on your nipples from time to
time, to see if you're really into this or if you're just making
up a story."
As Cheryl starts to leave, Lisa stops her, and before she has a
chance to think about it, blurts out, "Wait, Cheryl, there's one
more thing. You see, when I wear this skirt, I also need
permission to, you know, masturbate. I was going to ask Steve,
but he's out, and maybe he's mad at me, and I don't want anyone
else to know, and it's that time of the month when I'm really
horny, and so I wonder if you would just give me permission."
Lisa closes her eyes in embarrassment. I can't believe I just
said that.
Cheryl smiles. "We'll see," she says, as she walks out.
Lisa looks at her nipples again, still hard and very visible.
Right now, her urge to find a bathroom stall and pleasure herself
seems overwhelming, but she knows she cannot. She straightens her
skirt, summons her courage, and walks back into the office.
Chapter 10: A Little Help
Throughout that day, Lisa felt the eyes of the office on her
nipples, and did not find that she needed to, as Cheryl put it,
"give them a little pinch to wake them up." No, they were quite
awake on their own, as well as the rest of her body.
At about 3:15pm, she found herself in the bathroom. Sitting in
the stall, her panties and skirt at her knees, she noticed that
her finger was teasing her clit. She pulled it away, but the
pleasure she so desperately needed drew it back. The conversation
she had with Joan about getting permission seemed to make sense at
the time - and isn't that why Friday had gone so awry? But she
had barely managed to get any work done at all that day, thinking
only about her naked legs, about her pointy nipples under her blue
sweater, about Steve tickling her thighs, and about the smile
Cheryl gave when she left the conference room. And about her
pussy, which selfishly demanded attention. Getting permission
seemed like a good idea, but maybe not this time of the month when
her hormones were telling her to find a man, now!
Then it occurs to her: Cheryl hadn't /denied/ her permission.
Maybe she could get permission from someone else! Then she could
give her needy pussy the attention it craved and not feel guilty
about it!
She pulls up her panties and skirt and rushes to her cubicle, and
picks up her phone. Who should she call? Her first thought is
Steve, but then she thinks better of it and realizes that Joan
will surely give her permission. Quickly she dials her
therapist's number.
The phone rings three times. A recording comes on: "Hello, you
have reached the office of Joan Goldman. I am with a patient
right now and have de-activated my phone. However, I will be
happy to return your call as soon as I have a free moment. If
this is an emergency, press pound at any time. Otherwise, please
leave a message, including your telephone number. Thank You." As
the beep sounded, Lisa started to panic. Is this an emergency?
What will Joan thinks when her session is interrupted by a request
to masturbate? Should she leave a message? What should she say?
And will someone in the next cubicle overhear her? This is
hopeless, she thinks. She hangs up.
The moment the phone hits the hook, it rings again. Hopeful, Lisa
picks it up. "Hello?"
"Lisa! It's Jim. I got a busy signal the first time I called.
Who were you calling?"
What should she say? She can't tell her boss she was calling her
therapist! Not if she wanted that promotion. "A client.
Roberts."
"Oh? I thought we were close to closing that account. What was
the call about?"
Lisa feels like a schoolgirl in trouble. She looks down at her
lap and thinks: you! You got me into this! It's time to be an
adult, she thinks.
"I'm sorry Jim, it wasn't Roberts. It was a personal call I'd
rather not discuss."
There's a pause.
"Hey, no problem. As long as it wasn't long distance."
"No sir, of course not."
"Listen, Lisa, I'm trying to set something up. It could be a good
opportunity for you. But I need to ask you a personal question.
Do you mind?"
Does Jim know something? She responds, "Go ahead."
"Feel free not to answer. I mean really. There's no obligation
here."
"Go ahead and ask." Lisa worries, but reminds herself: it's a
skirt day. Jim is clearly uncertain, or covering himself against
sexual harassment, she thinks. But he needn't worry. She feels
the same suspense she remembered having on her first date.
"Okay: it's just this. What, um, what dress size are you?"
Well, she knew it wouldn't be something she wrote on her resume.
Jim has something in mind . . . and although she's worried, she is
anxious to know what.
"What's this about, sir?" she asks.
"I'll tell you tomorrow, if I can get this set up. But if I
can't, then it's better that you not know. "
She realizes she is playing with her hair. "Well, I'm usually a
size 5, sometimes a 6, depending on the clothes."
"Okay, Lisa. Thank you. I'll call you in for a meeting tomorrow
afternoon if this works out, okay?"
"Okay, sir." Jim hangs up, and then Lisa does too.
At 4:30 Cheryl came to her cubicle. Her face was bright with a
smile.
"Lisa, listen, I'm sorry I was so cross with you earlier."
Lisa looked down at her sweater and made sure her nipples were
still perky. Seeing that they were, she smiled back at Cheryl.
Cheryl continued, "You know, I've been thinking about what you
said, and I think I believe you. Actually, I kind of want to give
you a little help."
"Help? How?"
"Well . . . hey, can you take off a little early today? Maybe we
can get some drinks and perhaps dinner together."
Lisa realized that she was dying to leave work, and Cheryl's
friendly tone was alluring. "Okay."
Soon Cheryl and Lisa were walking through the downtown streets
together. Cheryl led Lisa into a parking garage, where her car, a
six-year-old luxury sedan, waited on the third floor.
"How can you afford to drive to work?" asked Lisa, "Parking is so
expensive around here."
"My husband gets two parking spots in this garage with his job."
"You're married?"
Cheryl smiled and showed off her engagement and wedding rings.
The diamond was so large and shiny, Lisa could hardly believe she
had never noticed it before. "It has its advantages," she said.
The drive out of the city was not quick, as they caught the
beginnings of the rush hour traffic. But they had plenty of time
to talk.
"I think I believe you that you're not dressing sexy to get the
promotion," said Cheryl, "although it was hard for me to believe
at first. After all, I'm hoping to get the same position, as I'm
sure you know."
"I'm sure you'll get it, Cheryl. You've been at the company
longer than me."
"I'm not so sure. Since you've been here you've really shaken
things up. We're all very impressed at the efficiency of your
department."
"Well, thank you," said Lisa. "It's just a matter of hiring the
right people . . . and putting in the extra hours when they're
needed."
Cheryl smiled. "We all know how often you're the last one out of
the office, Lisa. How late do you work most of the time?"
"Well, usually until 7pm, depending on how hungry I am. There's
always so much to do."
Cheryl laughed. "See, this is why I don't think you're dressing
sexy to get the promotion. You don't need to dress sexy.
Everyone knows you'll get it, despite my seniority."
Lisa tried to gauge Cheryl's emotions. Was she bitter? She
seemed perfectly friendly.
"But," continued Cheryl, "I'll bet you haven't got many friends."
Lisa thought for a moment. "Well," she said, "My best friend is
Christie; she was my roommate in college. Of course, she lives in
Denver now, but we see each other every now and then, when she
flies into town."
Cheryl glanced at Lisa, and then back at the road.
"And, well, there's . . . Joan."
"Who's Joan?"
"Joan's my therapist."
Cheryl laughed and put her right hand on Lisa's bare knee. "Lisa,
since you've come here you've been like a drill sergeant. You
bark orders at your employees and even your coworkers. You never
come to any of the office's social functions, except to the very
first Christmas party when you were first hired. As I recall,
that was the only time - until recently - that I ever saw you in
clothing that isn't described as 'stern corporate bland.' But
still it was prudish as hell. It's no wonder you haven't many
friends. But that's nothing that can't be changed."
Lisa felt the warmth of Cheryl's hand on her knee, and it felt
good.
"I'm sorry, Cheryl; it just didn't seem important."
"Don't be sorry, Lisa. The point is, it wouldn't make sense for
you to be dressing like you are to get a job. It's just not you.
Of course, it's not you to dress like this anyway. Do you often
go without a bra?"
Lisa looked down at her breasts and blushed, and then realized
that Cheryl was laughing.
"I doubt you have too much experience with men, either," said
Cheryl, gently squeezing Lisa's knee. "I don't mean that in a bad
way. I mean, clearly you aren't entirely inexperienced, but you
probably don't have as much time to date as you'd like."
Lisa listened carefully; as she knew Cheryl was right.
"I may have not fully understood what was going on between you and
Steve," Cheryl continued, "but nonetheless, you probably did hurt
him pretty badly. I'll be surprised if he comes to work all
week."
"But he was so assertive. I doubt he feels rejected. He's bigger
than that."
"See," said Cheryl, "you /don't/ have too much experience with
men. Steve's still wet behind the ears. He's what, 22? 23? But
don't worry. I'll help you get him back."
Lisa wasn't sure how to react. She read the license plate cover
of the car ahead of her. "Jesus loves you," it said, "no matter
what."
Cheryl continued, "I think it's good what you're doing. Good for
you. And for the rest of us."
Lisa looked out the passenger window at billboards crawling by.
"Hey," she asked, "where are we going, anyway?"
Cheryl flipped on her right turn signal. "To the mall," she said.
"I want to help you pick out the skirt you'll wear tomorrow."
Chapter 11: Cheryl's First Cliche
The mall was not very crowded on an early Monday evening, but a
few after-work shoppers and after-school hangers-out gave it a
healthy buzz. Lisa followed Cheryl past the stores where she
might usually find her pant-suits, her simple blouses, her
conservative sweaters, and her simple cotton slacks, to a smaller
store featuring lots of black, pink, and denim. The pop music
blaring in the background was neither Lisa's first nor her last
clue that this was not a store for the corporate woman.
"Uh, Cheryl," said Lisa, as Cheryl began flipping through a rack
of black skirts, "I think this store is more for the high school
crowd."
"Nonsense," said Cheryl. "I saw how good your legs looked under
that pleated black skirt. But I thought you might look better in
something tighter."
Cheryl pulled out a black cotton skirt that looked like far too
little material for Lisa. "This looks like it will fit you," she
said. "Go try it on."
Lisa took the skirt into the dressing room. She looked at the
label: "Hottie," it said, in pink bubble letters.
"Cotton/Polyester Blend." "Small." She pulled off her brown
skirt - her new brown skirt that came almost to her knees, she
recalled - and pulled the new skirt up her legs. When it reached
her hips, she had to pull hard. The material was stretchy, and
eventually she got the skirt to her waist.
Now she is looking at herself in the mirror, wondering what to do.
The skirt fits her body, she realizes, but does it fit Lisa? Does
it fit the woman she thinks she is? The hem hugs her thighs only
inches below her ass. The material is so tight the outline of her
panties is visible. She would never buy this skirt, not even for
a date. But she knows that Cheryl, Cheryl who was so nice to her
in the car, is waiting for her. She can't back out now, she
thinks. But she can't leave the dressing room either. Her skirt
leaves her legs entirely exposed, and lewdly shows off her small
but still very visible ass! She sits down on the tiny bench in
the dressing room. As she does so, her white panties come clearly
into view. "How is it?" Cheryl calls from the store.
"Um, I think it's too small."
"Let me see. Let me in." Lisa stands up and opens the door.
"See," says Lisa, showing her ass to Cheryl, "It's so tight it
shows the outline of my underwear."
"Oh," says Cheryl, "you're just wearing the wrong kind of
underwear. Here, take off those panties."
Lisa looked at Cheryl and almost cried. She felt her pussy
twitch. "You can't be serious."
"Take them off! I want to see how the skirt looks on you without
that panty-line."
Lisa looked at herself in the mirror again, standing nearly a foot
taller than Cheryl beside her. It will be okay, she thinks, and
turns away from the mirror, pulls up the skirt to her waist, and
pulls her white panties down to her ankles. She pulls the skirt
back down as far as she can, but it won't go more than a few
inches past her nude pussy.
"There," says Cheryl, as Lisa looks over her shoulder at her rear
in the mirror, now free of a panty-line, "that looks much better.
This will be your skirt tomorrow."
"Cheryl, I can NOT wear this to work. It is way too short. And
tight. Do you really think this is appropriate for the workplace?
Besides, I have a meeting with Jim tomorrow, and Steve is coming
back, and . . . "
Cheryl puts her finger on Lisa's lips. "It's okay, Lisa. It's
okay. You felt this way when you first put on the skirt Steve
gave you, didn't you? It wasn't that much longer than this one."
"Well, yes, but . . ."
"And how did that go? Did the world end? Were you kicked out of
work? Did anyone laugh at you?"
"Well, no, but . . . "
"But what?"
"But this is different. This is . . . scandalous." Lisa can feel
the cool air of the store's air conditioning on her naked pussy.
She is getting wet again, very wet. "Cheryl, I simply can't go to
work without . . . without . . . without panties."
Cheryl smiles. "Is that what you're worried about? Oh, don't you
worry; you can wear panties. It's just these white ones won't
work." Cheryl picks up Lisa's panties off the floor and puts them
in her purse. "In fact, let's go find you a pair that /will/
work, right now."
Cheryl opens the door of the dressing room. "Wait!" said Lisa,
"Can't I put on my other skirt first?"
"No," says Cheryl, "I rather like the one you're wearing. Come
on, let's go pay for it and get you some panties, hm?"
Cheryl leads Lisa to the register, where she asks the salesgirl to
remove the tags from the skirt. The salesgirl looks like she is
16 years old, wearing tight jeans and a pink tank top. She looks
at Lisa and smiles. She comes around the counter with a pair of
scissors and crouches in front of Lisa, putting a slightly sweaty
left hand on Lisa's left leg to steady herself. She brings her
right hand to the bottom of the skirt, holding it against Lisa's
thigh as she cuts off the tag. As she brings the tag back to the
counter and scans it, Lisa can still feel the warm spot on her
thigh where the girl's hand had been. It is high - very close to
her crotch.
"Go ahead, Lisa," says Cheryl, "Pay her."
As they leave the store, Lisa becomes more and more aware of her
lack of undergarments. Her black skirt rides up a little as she
walks, and she knows that nothing is protecting her modesty
underneath. She can see that Cheryl is looking at her legs from
time to time, as are the men they pass who turn their heads in
clear indication that they are checking her out. Some of them,
she thinks, might be looking at her breasts, which bounce around
unfettered beneath her tight blue sweater, her ever-present
nipples making it clear that there is nothing constraining them.
"There's a lingerie store just down this way," says Cheryl, "but
first . . . "
They stop in front of a ladies' shoe store.
"First, you need some better shoes to go with that skirt."
Lisa did think her work shoes looked a little off with this sexy
skirt. But Cheryl's grin indicated something amiss . . .
"Surely, you know how this works," says Cheryl. "I'll wait here.
You go in, and see if you can catch the eye of that salesman over
there. That one. The one with the green tie. Yes. Tell him
you're looking for a red shoe with a four inch heel. If he asks
your size, tell him you aren't sure and ask him to measure your
foot. Then let him put the shoe on for you."
Lisa could see where this was going. Of course, this would have
to happen after buying the short, tight skirt, but before buying
the underwear.
"Cheryl," she says, "I don't think I can do this."
Cheryl puts her hand on her back. "This is an old cliché, Lisa.
It's more than that. It's a rite of passage. All women do this,
at some point. The salesman has gone through this a hundred
times. It's your turn now. Go."
Lisa closes her eyes for a moment, pulls down the hem of her skirt
again, and steps into the shoe store. The salesman in a green tie
notices her immediately, approaches her, and asks, "Can I help you
Miss? Something particular you're looking for?"
"Yes," she says, not making eye contact, "something red. With a
four inch heel." This store is even cooler than the last, and
Lisa feels it between her legs. This man is going to see it, she
thinks.
"Ah, we have a couple choices in red. What size?"
"Um, I'm not sure. Can you measure for me?"
The salesman smiles and nods. "Please, have a seat."
Lisa remembers how easily she could see her white panties when she
sat down in the dressing room. Her white panties were now tucked
in Cheryl's purse. Cheryl is standing at the window, as if window
shopping for shoes. Cheryl holds the plastic bag with Lisa's
modest brown skirt inside. Lisa thinks of walking out of the
store, but she is afraid to tell Cheryl that she can't do it. All
women do this, Cheryl had said, right?
Lisa sits down on a leather seat. She feels the cool, smooth
leather against her bare skin; there is nothing between her
nakedness and the chair. She crosses her legs immediately as the
salesman goes into the back room. Another salesman, by the
register, is clearly gazing at her legs. The male half of a
shopping couple is looking over his shoulder every thirty seconds.
"All women do this," Lisa muttered to herself, not believing it
but wanting to very badly. Her embarrassment heightens when she
realizes how wet she is, and feels her moisture starting to puddle
on the leather chair.
The salesman returns with a foot measuring device. "Slip out of
your shoes and put your heel here." Lisa finds it comforting that
he is giving orders, and finds it easy to follow them. She does
not think much as she uncrosses her legs to bend over and take off
her shoes. With her legs uncrossed, she suspects the salesman,
who is on one knee, can see her bare pussy. As she puts her right
heel in the device, there is no doubt.
It takes a few seconds for the salesman to tear his gaze away from
under her skirt and look at the device. He pushes some metal
pieces around and completes the measurement. "You're an 8 1/2 ,
Miss. Let me see what I have in your size." He gets up and
rushes to the backroom.
The male shopper looks over desperately as the salesman gets up;
clearly he wants a glimpse himself. Lisa quickly crosses her legs
again, causing her skirt to ride up to the very top of her thigh.
I have never felt so naked in my life, she thinks, as the salesman
returns, with a single box. He kneels in front of her again.
"Let's try these."
Lisa uncrosses her legs, and her skirt has ridden up so high that
she can see some of her pubic hair past the hem. She lifts
herself from the seat for a moment to tug down the skirt, but when
she gives her left leg to the salesman to slip on the shoe she
knows it was of little use. His gaze remains fixed on her crotch,
and she knows she is completely exposed to him. All women do
this, she thinks to herself. This is an old cliché. She looks at
Cheryl, who is watching her from the window. Cheryl gives her a
thumbs up, which fills her with sudden happiness. Why is Cheryl's
approval so important, Lisa wonders? The salesman puts the right
shoe on as well, gently stroking her bare calf as he does so.
"Give them a try," she says.
She stands up, and gives her skirt yet another tug. The salesman
is watching her. The other salesman is watching her. The couple
that had been shopping are now both sitting down, watching her.
And - she looks again to make sure - Cheryl is watching her.
She walks around the store. She has never worn heels before, and
her walking is unsteady. These heels seem so tall that she feels
unsafe about putting weight on them, but walking on her toes
doesn't seem right either. She blushes. She is doing this for
the very first time, and probably doing it wrong. She is wearing
the shortest skirt she has ever seen, and her nipples are still
evident in her tight sweater, and it seems everyone is watching
her, wondering what she will do next. She feels out of place, but
she knows she is putting on a show. She looks back at the
salesman and smiles; he is kneeling by the chair, where she
notices she left behind a small puddle of moisture. She turns
away, hoping no one else notices, but feels that her pussy is
still leaking its fluids. She can feel them on her upper thighs,
and now she feels a drop starting to drip down. Oh god, how I
wish I still had my panties. She hopes that her audience will
not notice her juices dripping down her leg, past the hem of her
skirt; in order to not call attention to it, she does nothing
about it.
She looks in a mirror by the register. Her legs look especially
long and sleek in the heels; the position forced on her calf
muscles gives them a shape that looks especially inviting. Her
gaze moves up to her thigh, exposed by the short skirt. She can
see the light reflecting off her inner thigh where it is moist.
She blushes and rushes back to her seat, almost tripping in the
heels.
She sits on the seat, and feels that it is still wet. "Okay,
they're okay, I'll take them," she stammers as she pulls them off.
"Ring them up. I'll take them."
"Well, hold on, Miss," says the salesman, "I have another pair
that you should try as well. Hold on just a minute." Lisa
watches as the man adjusts his pants, stands up, and runs to the
back room.
Cheryl comes into the shoe store and sits next to Lisa. Lisa is
almost in tears, and Cheryl hugs her. "Okay, Lisa, Okay." says
Cheryl, "I believe you now. I still had my doubts, but now I
really believe you."
Lisa looks into Cheryl's eyes. "All women do this?"
"Well, most women wear panties when they do this."
"You did this?"
Cheryl smiles. "Maybe I got married too soon. I never did. But
I wish I had. How do you feel?"
Lisa looks down at her legs. "Exposed."
"Yeah, but you're not the only one," says Cheryl. "Did you see
the salesguy?"
"Huh?"
"He had a tent in his pants big enough for a three ring circus.
He's probably jacking off in the back room right now."
Lisa blushes. "No, he's getting me more shoes."
"Sure he is," says Cheryl. "Sure he is. I think this first pair
looks great on you. Why don't you put them back on and we'll pay
for them. They don't match your shirt, but they look better than
your old ones. Then we'll get you some panties, and then a couple
drinks, hmm?"
"Okay." Lisa slips the red shoes back on as Cheryl puts her old
ones in the box. They walk to the register, Lisa still unsteady,
just as the salesman rushes out of the backroom, out of breath.
"I have the other pair, Miss."
Cheryl interjects: "That's okay, she'll take the first pair,
thank you." Lisa is glad Cheryl is taking over. "This one's on
me," says Cheryl, as she takes a credit card out of her purse, "a
present."
"Thank you," says Lisa. As the salesman scans the card, Cheryl
asks, "So, how often does this happen?"
"What?" asks the salesman.
"You know, how often do women come in here and let you look up
their skirts?"
The salesman blushes, and Lisa looks desperately at Cheryl. "Oh
come on," says Cheryl, "to whom was this a secret?"
Lisa looks at the salesman, making eye contact for the first time.
He looks at Lisa and then at Cheryl and then down at the counter
and says, "Oh, it happens about once a week, but none are as
pretty as yours."
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